Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Toni
Morrison first landed on my radar when Ta-Nehisi Coates included a quote by her
on the cover of Between the World and Me. As an author,
Morrison does not shy from slapping you in the face with racial commentary. Her
most notable novel, Beloved*, earned
her the 1993 Nobel Prize in Literature, and she continues to be a booming voice
in discussions regarding the disenfranchisement of black America.

Beloved tackles the topic of slavery,
couched in creative storytelling. The plot is based on a historically famous
moment of infanticide. The Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 stated that slaves who
escaped to free states could be seized by their previous masters and returned
to captivity. When Kentucky plantation owners apprehended former slave Margaret
Garner in Ohio in 1856, Margaret chose to murder her own daughter rather than
give her back over to slavery.

Morrison,
inspired by the ferocity of Margaret’s love for her child as well as the moral
contentiousness of her actions, adapts the event into a fictional story. In
order to effectively hone in on the psychological trauma of slavery, Morrison
considers the killing from multiple perspectives, including the mother, the
community, the other siblings, and the dead daughter herself in the form of a
ghost. The result is a chilling account of a brutal action born of an even more
brutal and murderous institution.

I
appreciate Morrison’s thoughtful take on a terrible history that I can’t fully
comprehend. Unfortunately, I’m not a fan of her writing style, and I had quite
a bit of trouble navigating a sense of place within the novel. She jumps around
between past, present, future, death, life, imagination, and spoken word.
Additionally, she jumps around between the minds of each main character. I
spent most of the time trying to orient myself to the speaker/context, and too
little time grasping the intended message.

Morrison is
a gifted poet, and her writing contains a rawness fitting of a population that
was forced to remain vulnerable even in their legal “freedom”. When I wasn’t
distracted by the jerking back and forth between surrealism, reality, and
stream of consciousness, I considered her very talented. After the negatives
balance the positives, Beloved
levels out at 3 out of 5 camel humps.

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

I didn’t enjoy On the Road,
because Kerouac is a misogynistic asshole, and I have difficulty separating his
prose from his subject. He published The Dharma
Bums* a year later, in 1958, and the improvement is staggering for a number
of reasons.

In typical Kerouac fashion, TheDharma Bums is a semi-fictional story,
and the main character (Ray Smith) is based off of himself. Through Smith, we
see Kerouac explore what Zen Buddhism means for him. Compared to On the Road, He comes to similar
conclusions about the meaning of life and how he should respond to that truth,
but the Buddhist lens leads to an important caveat: you can do whatever you
want, but you should always be kind.

His kindness and generosity lends
to an optimistic tone throughout. Even the way he describes food is upbeat
(basic meals are considered the most delicious of all time). His friend group
is encouraging and communally oriented, which helps Kerouac on his journey to
discover how to live the best life. Another main character in the book—Japhy
Ryder, based on poet Gary Snyder—epitomizes the charitable Buddha. Smith (Kerouac)
looks up to Ryder (Snyder), and the majority of TheDharma Bums details Smith’s outdoor hikes and mountain climbing,
all inspired by Ryder.

Why all the outdoorsiness?
According to Kerouac, dharma bums are “rucksack wanderers…refusing to subscribe
to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work
for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn’t want anyway”
(Kerouac, 83). Kerouac is notoriously adventurous. He lives wildly and
spontaneously, hitchhiking all across America dozens of times. A key component
of his Buddhism is simplicity---and what’s simpler than having virtually no
possessions and living off of the land? He is truly in the land of the free. He
has a zest for life unquenchable by conventional standards, and he is happier in
a sleeping bag at the base of a mountain than in a bed.

This book makes me happy to be
alive, and I finally understand why people love Kerouac. He has a childlike
receptivity to the world, constantly open to new experiences. He makes being
poor look glamorous, because he is rich in spirit. He writes in a goofy,
strangely descriptive, stream-of-consciousness style that more accurately
expresses his joy than if he had written cautiously. He just wants to
“ornament this world with [his] sincerity” (Kerouac, 14). Overall, I think that the writing
skill and content of TheDharma Bums is
an upgrade from the novel that put Kerouac on the map. In On the Road, women are often caught in the crosshairs of his
escapades. In Dharma Bums, there are
traces of misogyny, but mostly, we witness Kerouac’s moral trajectory advance
in a positive direction. I never had a problem with his rowdiness—and that’s
definitely still present, as when he and his friends perform Buddhist Yab-Yum
rituals, which are actually orgies with a spiritual twist. But The Dharma Bums reveals a Kerouac who is
equally ravenous, but less ignorant of the mess his rampages leave behind. As
such, I give Dharma Bums 5 out of 5
camel humps.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Anagrams can be pretty funny. For example, “New York Times” rearranges
to “Monkeys write”, and if you shuffle around “Weapons of mass destruction” you
get “US team swoops. Finds no trace”. Props to whoever spent the time figuring
those out, because it certainly wasn’t me. Lorrie Moore’s first novel, Anagrams* is also very funny. Not only
does the subject lend itself to clever witticisms, it’s evident that Moore is a
comical person—a quality that consistently pervades her short stories, which continue
to give her clout within the literary community.

Anagrams
contains both wordplay and storyplay. Moore exercises in wordplay
throughout; characters often confuse similar words, or use words with multiple
meanings and thereby have trouble communicating. Usually, the mix-up is
amusing, like when the main character explains, “I remember hearing my mother
say to [my brother] once in a loud, scolding whisper: ‘Louis! Don’t play with
your genitals!” which I thought was the same word as gentiles—leaving me greatly bewildered as to whom we were supposed
to play with” (Moore, 171). Moore also engages in storyplay, incorporating
several independent storylines, resulting in an ever-changing dynamic between two
characters: Benna and Gerard. In one story, Benna is a poet; in another, she’s
an aerobics instructor, etc. Each chapter is a different incarnation of the
characters, i.e. an anagram of alternate realities.

The one consistency is Benna’s
blatant failures. She struggles in every relationship and career move. Moore
brilliantly employs the concept of interchangeable anagrams to explore Benna’s
crisis of identity. We see a woman in pain in various ways, and Moore
highlights her instability via literal plot points and the metaphorical
anagram. How can Benna find and clutch to absolutes if meaning is so elusive?
How can she find someone who will absolutely, unequivocally love her?

Clearly, Anagrams isn’t an uplifting story. We’re hit with wave after wave
of depressing conversation. Thankfully, Moore throws us some life vests with
her cynical humor. For instance, when describing Benna during one of her
particularly heartbreaking identities, Moore says, “She insisted she loved him
and would go mad without him or at least have a hard time grocery shopping”
(Moore, 121). Benna reeks of pathetic pungency, but there is something very
authentic, and therefore endearing, about her.

On the other hand, I find moments
where Moore tries too hard to convey cleverness. Her overexertion manifests
itself in some of Benna’s dialogue, but it’s most pronounced in Moore’s
layering of storylines. I struggle with determining
whether Moore intends certain chapters to be combined in a cohesive thread, or
if we should view them separately, or a little bit of both. Honestly, although clarity
of plot seems like a big make-or-break, I’m barely bothered by the confusion,
and I appreciate her experimental method. In the end, what matters most for me
is Moore’s obvious ability to create compelling characters who coerce me to
empathy and laughter. Thus, I give Anagrams
4 out of 5 camel humps, and I look forward to seeing Moore grow as a
writer in her subsequent novels.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

A Brief History of Seven Killings* is
anything but brief, considering it’s sitting at a solid 686 pages. I knew that
going in—it’s not like there’s a Spanx equivalent for books. Still, some
lengthy literature doesn’t feel as long as it actually is. This big guy feels
very much like 686 pages.

The page
count isn’t the only daunting aspect. The novel features dozens of perspectives
such that Marlon James, the author, includes a character glossary.The multitude of voices simultaneously
intrigues and annoys me. Certainly, the range evidences James’ skill; however,
jumping around so frequently lends to a jarring experience. It took a couple
hundred pages before I could feel firmly situated and knowledgeable about who is
who and how they are connected. This book is not for you if you’re not patient.

Furthermore,
the novel spans more than one decade (1976-1991) and more than one country. It
primarily focuses on Jamaican ghettos, expanding to America as Jamaican gangs
expand their drug empire. So, while you’re trying to adjust to the number of
characters, you’re also navigating ever-changing political and geographical
contexts. Because most of the novel takes place in Jamaica, many of the
speakers are Jamaican. The prevalence of Jamaican dialect adds to my confusion
as a reader, although I’m appreciative that it forces me to learn the lingo of
an unfamiliar culture. Overall, I think that the non-American bend is one of
the novel’s strong suits, but it’s worth noting that it contributes to a
feeling of not knowing what the hell is happening.

Patience isn’t the only
prerequisite—you need to have some thick skin. James gets seriously dark. One
chapter is from the point of view of a young boy getting buried alive. Sections
begin with sentences like, “You can’t really know how it feels, just knowing
deep down that in a few minutes these men will rape you” (James, 121). James
doesn’t shy away from anything gruesome, sexual, or perverse.

To be
clear, this work is fictional, but I had to continually remind myself of its
creative license. The story is so exhaustive and there are enough factual
tidbits that you start to believe you’re reading a very colorful history book. For
instance (no spoilers here---this is a back-of-the-book plot point), the first
portion of the novel focuses on an assassination attempt on the Singer.
Although he’s never explicitly mentioned by name, the Singer is Bob Marley, and
the trajectory of his life in the book closely matches that of his true
existence. I guess I’m an asshole, because before this novel, I thought Marley
had died of a drug overdose. In reality, he died of melanoma. Of note, there
was a real-life attempt made on Marley motivated by politics and gang-related
strife.

Perhaps the
most disturbing element of James’ fact-fiction blending is his portrayal of the
CIA as ruthlessly exploitive of Jamaica, a country at a crossroads. As one of
the dons says, “Peace can’t happen when too much to gain in war” (James, 416). Clearly, James extensively
researched his topic, and I wonder how much truth there is to America’s covert,
selfish involvement in steering ghetto chaos, killings, and drug trade. I’ll
avoid getting all conspiracy theorist on you, but I will say that James’
insinuations are compelling. At the very least, he draws attention to a
political dynamic that beforehand I’d honestly never given a single thought.

I can tell
that James poured himself into this novel, and some of the characters spoke to
me and shook me. Unfortunately, I think the aforementioned negatives of reading
a book of such volume and range temper the positives. I’m not surprised that
James won the 2015 Man Booker Prize for Fiction. His feat is worth
acknowledging, but his hard work doesn’t always translate into a story worthy
of your time. As such, I give A Brief
History of Seven Killings 3 out of 5 camel humps.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Oh,
O’Brien, how you have failed me! I need brilliant literature to get me through
the tomfoolery of this election cycle; unfortunately, you did not provide. I
really respect O’Brien as a person and an author. The Things They Carriedis one of my
favorite books that I’ve read this past year, and I’m consistently reminded of
his innovative writing style whenever I put pen to page. How did he follow up a
genius piece like that with In the Lake
of the Woods*?

In the Lake of the Woods is a wanna-be Gone Girl (although,
in his defense, the former was published 18 years before the latter). It tells
the fictional story of a newly beaten United States senate candidate, John
Wade, and the mysterious disappearance of his wife, Kathy. Is John responsible?
O’Brien doesn’t tell us definitively, so we have to draw our own conclusions. John’s
words and actions are scrutinized in the aftermath, and readers cling to
various clues revealed through interviews with his peers and an inspection of
his past.

I’m fine
with this on principle. O’Brien is the king of moral ambiguities, and it
follows that he could produce a compelling tale with an equally ambiguous
plotline. The biggest issue with this novel is that there are too many threads.
Each chapter bounces around between:

flashbacks to John’s childhood.

flashbacks to John’s courtship of Kathy.

flashbacks to John’s combat in Vietnam.

“hypothesis” chapters that explore what might have happened
to Kathy.

“evidence” chapters that include assorted quotes from
fictional interviews.

the real time narrative.

Obviously, there is a lot going on
here. Too much, in fact. I didn’t connect with a single character, because
their development is so haphazard. Based on the Vietnam chapters, we know that
John doesn’t healthily acknowledge his crippling PTSD. He is a man of secrets,
so much so that he starts to believe the lies that he tells himself. It seems
like there is a good opportunity here for O’Brien to say something meaningful
about PTSD—to make significant commentary that offers the reader perspective.
Instead, the unfocused structure prevents me from understanding how the events
in Vietnam affect John’s psyche, other than his constant will to suppress his
memories, which eventually leads to the suppressing of many memories, not just that
of war. O’Brien is clearly haunted by his own Vietnam experiences—and
rightfully so. I know very little about victims of PTSD, and I wish he had
offered me more insight.

The lack of character-connection
is particularly problematic when it comes to a mystery. If someone goes
missing, I’m supposed to care, right? How could I care, when the “gone girl” is
only vaguely described in relation to her husband, rather than in her own
right? It appears that O’Brien thinks that writing a mystery requires rendering
every thing and every character overly enigmatic.

Lastly, I despise the way O’Brien
portrayed Kathy and John’s love. It is possessive, obsessive, and unnerving. I
can get behind that (yassss Lolita), but their love isn’t believable. They say
things to each other that indicate their supposed all-consuming, controlling
affection, but because I can’t connect with the characters (and therefore can’t
get inside their heads), I constantly question the intensity of their love. Are
these just words? What do they really feel?

Alas, I’ll never know. I assume
that O’Brien intended for readers to walk away scathed by a dark, cryptic
story, trying to find their own truth within the tale. I walked away confused,
bored, and unbelieving. Stick to TheThings They Carried, and don’t go further. In the Lake of the Woods receives 1 out of 5 camel humps.

*O’Brien, Tim. In the
Lake of the Woods. New York: Houghton Mifflin Publishing Company, 1994.
Print.

Search This Blog

Lyndsay West

About Me

I’m a 25 year old lover of reading and writing. I was born and raised in Dallas, Texas, and I graduated from the University of Virginia in 2013. Currently, I live in New York City making my writing mark on the world via freelance work. Other interests include religious studies, philosophy, psychology, dancing, and live music.

Follow my twitter: @humpdayhardback

*Words underlined/highlighted in red are links to websites with more info on the topic.